


Tales from the Fortress of Ends

by soulhollow



Category: Flight Rising
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 14:59:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11534625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulhollow/pseuds/soulhollow





	1. Clan Endro

_"Spring passes and one remembers one's innocence._  
_Summer passes and one remembers one's exuberance._  
_Autumn passes and one remembers one's reverence._  
_Winter passes and one remembers one's perseverance."_  
\- Yoko Ono

  
Deep within the Southern Icefield, where the Cloudscape Crags meld into the soaring heights of the Fortress of Ends, hardy travelers--if they're lucky--will find the immense warrens of inter-connected caves that loyal clans of the Icewarden call home. Although 'caves' provides a functional description, it hardly gives justice to the expansive reality of conference halls, quarters, libraries, and schoolrooms each clan maintains.

Snow, a year-round occurrence in the Southern Icefields, often buries the well-hidden lair entrances of the Ice Clans without a trace. In fact, the Fortress of Ends carries a hue of deep blue, especially on sunny days, as the ice never yields, not even at the height of the summer solstice. By midwinter, only the glacial peaks jut forth from the pristine drifts. Even so, if a traveler bears an invitation, they'll surely find an escort awaiting their arrival, eager to guide them into the warmth and hospitality within.

Denizens of the Ice Flight, rumored to be aloof, harsh, and as cold as the lands they occupy, rarely attempt to discourage such hearsay. Although it's a harsh reputation to live under, it works to keep them safe, as most dragons hesitate to venture into the depths of the Icefields, or--and better still, to the minds of its denizens--staunchly avoid the frigid lands altogether.

Clearly, this was the ideal place for Eira to establish Clan Endro.

Establishing a clan wasn't Eira's original intention, yet she rallied to the task of providing for growing numbers with the stereotypical efficiency most Lightning dragons possess. The Southern Icefield, unlike the dragonfolk Eira provided for, was planned from the start. In her youth--against her better judgment--she'd befriended two unlikely Coatls by the names of Soul and Lace. Their stories of growing up in the Cloudscrape Crags infected Eira with a desire to see the lands for herself, to get to know the dragons who lived, hunted, and crafted to support their existence in such a forbidding place. Soul and Lace were trouble, to be sure, but they'd planted a seed and oh, how that seed grew, but she wasn't about to set forth unprepared.

By the time she arrived, her small (but growing) numbers in tow, they were equipped for the harshness of the terrain. Dressed warmly, well-rationed and well-armed, they settled at the Frigid Floes. Life along the banks of the glacial ice-drift was a challenge, but Eira's friends, visitors from other Flights, and interspersed hatchlings sallied to the task with enthusiasm. Something about the clean cold air revived them, something about the clear sunny days, the star-strewn nights...

They adapted, but their numbers continued to grow. Eira, aware that they'd soon need sturdier housing, ventured inland to make trade inquiries.

Fortuitously, she met Drift. Impressed by her politeness, as well as her resolute nature, he helped her navigate the tricky matter of securing lodgings within the Crags, even while he, himself, was merely visiting on business from the Fortress of Ends.

Relocating was a struggle. Although all desired larger (and safer) quarters in which to live, packing and relocating across the Southern Icefield posed a series of problems, one after another. Eira, despite her reputation for levelheadedness, lost her temper with Archer's ineffective attempts to pack sensibly, to travel sensibly, to stay with the group, and by the time they'd arrived and started the long business of unpacking she'd abandoned Archer to his own devices.

After the strenuous move, Drift became a regular visitor. As a gaoler/guardian in the service of the Icewarden, he had no clan of his own.

Eira, noticing her deceptively forbidding benefactor often seemed a touch lonely, soon extended a formal invitation to join her clan--for, all about her--a clan they'd become.

Drift graciously accepted.

Within another year, Clan Endro's numbers (and trade profits) had grown such that Eira was able to cast a bid for an empty lair within the southernmost peaks of the Fortress of Ends.

Anticipating strife with Archer, Eira requisitioned aid from fellow clanfolk to help the eccentric mage pack, load, and move the contents of his quarters and personal library. Pleading mental instability at the thought of doing it all again, Eira's put-upon mage was granted leave to fly ahead and establish his quarters where he liked, as this--their present trip to their new den within the Fortress of Ends--would be their final move.

They were home.


	2. A New Lair

 

_It's more room than we'll ever need_  Eira thought, wonderingly.  
  
Dimly-lit, the cavernous corridors of her clan's newly-acquired lair stretched ahead, their lengths fading into darkness. In her mind's eye, Eira could picture the folk of her clan treading these halls, clearing the dust from the numerous quarters. Magical orbs to shed light would adorn the sconces and alcoves. Eventually, perhaps, woven rugs would line the floors.  
  
"Surely, milady, that's... not a note of regret, I detect?" Drift replied, pacing slowly alongside the Matriarch of Clan Endro, tail swishing to his slow gait.  
  
Eira, far smaller than her friend and companion, took several steps for each of Drift's, but--accustomed to each another--she easily kept abrest of his stride.  
  
_Not in the least,_  she replied, amused.  
  
In the pale glow of Drift's emblem, the two approached a pair of large wooden doors, curved and hinged within a frame of stone. Adorned with spidery whorls of iron, bereft of obvious handle, they seemed impenetrable. Eira, however, walked forward and rose to her back legs to grasp a niche in the wrought design. Regardless of her small stature, the door slowly opened as she stepped backward to draw it ajar.  
  
"Here, milady, we are truly within the peaks of the glaciers."  
  
Lodging the door against the wall of the corridor, Eira turned to survey the room within. Moonlight cast its chill light here, for the ceiling, vaulted, rose above them with the clarity of glass. Quietly awed, she ventured into the large oval chamber. Drift waited until she'd crossed the threshold before continuing forward. A table, crafted to compliment the dimensions of the room, occupied its center.  
  
_A council chamber, Drift. A place for business, for diplomacy, for emissaries._  
  
"Truly, milady. It's been far too long since this chamber saw such use. It would hearten me greatly to see it alive with dragonfolk, once again."  
  
Eira turned her gaze to Drift, studying him calmly, warmly. Her friend, her benefactor since her arrival in the Southern Icefield.  
  
_Thank you, my dear friend. I hardly believe any of this would've come to pass, without your aid, without your good word of my clanfolk._  
  
Momentarily taken aback, yet honored, Drift inclined his head. "Strength and resourcefulness rarely go unnoticed in these frigid lands. It's been an honor to be of service to a clan such as yours."  
  
_Oh, Drift..._  
  
At Eira's thought, practically a sigh, Drift raised his gaze inquiringly.  
  
_You've been a friend, first and foremost. Please, allow me to offer you something in return?_  
  
"I've naught for wants, milady. As a gaoler in service of the Icewarden, a guardian of this fortress and the lands running forth, I'm promised a warm hearth wherever I might travel within our borders."  
  
_I know this, Drift, yet you've no Clan. No permanent home. May I offer you that much? That, always, you might come here?_  
  
Humbled, Drift once more inclined his head. "Little could honor me more, milady Eira, though you must know I cannot remain indefinitely, in all seasons, for my duties will surely call me away."  
  
Eira was, indeed, aware that Drift's loyalties rested in the service of the lands they called home.  _Oh yes, my friend. I know it, and know it well. I'd never bind you so, but in this, my heart would name you folk, no matter how far your duties may take you._  
  
Drift's pale eyes grew wide, a slow smile gracing his rugged features. "Then.. milady, I accept."


	3. A gift from Drift, Eira's discovery

Eira, the very embodiment of satisfaction, paced along quickly to match Drift's easy stride through the market. Trade deals had gone well, new potentials had shown up due to all of Melanie's hard work (and been duly impressed), and now...  
  
_We'll have a comfortable winter, at this rate_  she mused, aiming her thoughts at Drift.  
  
"Indeed, milady. A truly satisfactory venture. Blessings in surplus."  
  
_Perhaps we should call it a day?_  
  
Drift, however, suddenly drew to a halt alongside a particularly busy stall. "Milady.."  
  
_Oh, Drift, discard the thought-_  Eira began. They had, to Drift's singular interest, stopped next to an elaborate booth, its magical wares clearly pricey. On closer inspection, Eira noticed a great deal of the seller's niche market involved magical scrolls to influence genes.  _-I've had bad experiences with those, Drift. As you see, I'm a Coatl, when I was once a Guardian such as yourself._  
  
"Oh yes, milady. A shocking occurrence, to be sure, but not--at least to my mind--unfortunate, if you do forgive me for saying so."  
  
Eira sighed. The incident, for all its shock, had taken place in her youth.  _I've certainly adapted since, but nonetheless... I hardly see the need._  
  
"Milady, sometimes we purchase things simply because we desire them. What of something harmless? I see a row of scrolls near the middle, in back. They detail a flourishing of tertiary color, normally hidden from all. Haven't you ever wondered what yours might be?"  
  
_I haven't_ , she replied, promptly, but soon added  _I'm an orphan. I don't know what my parents looked like. It could be any color._  
  
"A mystery!" Drift replied with enthusiasm, catching the eye of the dragon within the elaborate stall.  
  
_Oh, Drift. We needn't-_  
  
"A bit of fun, milady? We could reverse it, should you be dissatisfied. Reversal scrolls are far more reasonable in price."  
  
_That would make it all a waste. Drift!_  Indignant, and more than a little flustered, Eira rose to her back feet and crossed her short arms.  
  
"I'd hardly consider it such. As you've said, we've done well for this trading cycle. Besides, the Gala's soon upon us. The whole clan will be celebrating. Why not you, as well?"  
  
All during this, Drift had--without escaping Eira's notice--counted out coins from his own travel bags. Satisfied, the clerk gently handed the magical scroll into Drift's large talons, which Eira's companion had held forth most carefully for this delicate exchange.  
  
"Close your eyes, milady?" Drift inquired, eyes sparkling.  
  
Feeling somewhat put-upon, yet quietly flattered, Eira did as requested.  
  
The scroll, as once the Coatl scroll had long ago, thwacked her across the scalp. Unlike the Coatl scroll, this one didn't knock her out, but rather sent a tickling flush from the base of her throat to her belly, all the way to the tip of her tail.  
  
_Is it done?_  She asked, keeping her eyes tightly shut.  
  
"Milady..." Drift replied, softly.  
  
Suddenly fearful, Eira blinked wide and quickly unbuttoned the toggles at her throat. Her neck, normally black, had turned a glimmering white.  
  
_I'm... my hidden gene, it's white?_  
  
Drift turned to the booth's vendor. "Milady would like to know if this is white."  
  
The vendor, arms crossed loosely on the table before him, smiled most kindly. "Close, ma'am, but I daresay that's  _ice_ , not white."  
  
Eira cast a look up at Drift.  _Ice?_  
  
"Milady, clearly, you were always meant to come south, to join us in the Southern Icefield. A denizen of Lightning though you may be, your tertiary tells it true. You're Ice, just as I am, with all the innovation inherent of Lightning dragons to go with it."  
  
Astonished, Eira carefully redid the toggles of her sweater. Only a small sliver of the glimmering paleness remained at her throat. Quite suddenly, it seemed a beautiful secret, brushed up against her heart, and she wasn't sure whom she cared to share it with.  
  
_Drift, I. Thank you. I hardly know what to say._  
  
Smiling broadly, Drift tipped a genial salute to the shopkeep and stepped back into the throng of dwindling afternoon market-goers. Eira quickly joined him.  
  
After a few paces, he glanced down to her. "You don't have to thank me, milady. I can't imagine a better outcome. All in all, I believe we've settled out wonderfully for the day. Let's go home."  
  
_Yes, home. The place I... somehow, unknowingly, matched all along._


	4. "I should keep you about more often!"

 

Joaquin, contentedly on his way to see what the kitchens were up to for the evening, suddenly paused in the corridor. Macaroon--perhaps daydreaming of dinner herself--collided with the back of his left leg and made a soft  _scree!_  of surprise.  
  
A door was ajar, mere paces ahead of them.  _Curious_ , he thought, trying to remember if they'd received commission to put the room to use. Drawing a blank, he decided to investigate.  
  
Peering around the door, he spotted Archer and Wencel. For his part, Archer held a piece of gypsum and, by floating candlelight, appeared to be scrutinizing two weighted scrolls and an open book. All three objects rested on the floor before him.  
  
Wencel rested along the wall of the oval room, front legs crossed one over the other. He, too, was accompanied by floating candles, as well as Archer's small blue fox rat, Knight.  
  
As Joaquin quietly observed the pair, Archer backed away from his scrolls and began to scratch white marks against the unadorned stone floor of the chamber. The new marks joined several he'd placed before Joaquin had poked his head in to see what was going on.  
  
Marks set, Archer--still holding his piece of gypsum--rose to his back talons and began stepping along a series of the marks.  
  
Nothing happened, yet Archer didn't appear remotely disappointed. Instead, he settled back to all four talons and leaned down to make a closer study of one of the scrolls.  
  
"Are you quite sure this isn't a foolish pursuit?" Wencel asked, voice bereft of judgment.  
  
Archer gave a short huff of a laugh. "Listen to Eira's council for any length of time and you'll find that practically everyone believes my pursuits unerringly foolish. I'd hate to disappoint them by breaking the streak."  
  
Joaquin, hardly wanting to get caught in the rudeness of eavesdropping, decided to make his presence known by gently shouldering his way in. "Evening!" he announced, Macaroon clicking in beside him.  
  
"Oh, Joaquin! Evening, yes, I suppose we've been here long enough to warrant evening.." trailing off, Archer bent to make a few more scratches on the floor.  
  
"He's gone quite mad, again, I think," added Wencel, smiling warmly from his position along the wall. Knight, excited by Joaquin and Macaroon's presence, whisked forward to circle Macaroon's hooves excitedly.  
  
"Mad, yes, eccentric, pursuant of esoteric rubbish, ad nauseum-" Archer murmured, once more stepping carefully over the scratches he'd made on the floor.  
  
Approaching cautiously, lest he get in Archer's way, Joaquin drew level with the scrolls. Though weathered, the ink remained dark and legible.  
  
It was, however, altogether far too dim in the windowless chamber they occupied. Archer's candles barely illuminated the parchment. With a long-suffering sigh-- _denizens of other Flights_ \--Joaquin clicked his talons. Small orbs of pure yellow light appeared about his curled claws, five in number, before growing in size. When they'd each achieved the girth of a grapefruit, he sent them up and about to cast better illumination throughout the chamber.  
  
"I should keep you about more often!" Archer announced gratefully. He shot Joaquin a smile before resuming his irregular steps over the gypsum marks.  
  
"Of course, happy to... spare you from yourself," Joaquin replied, chidingly, a grin equally in evidence. He returned his gaze to Archer's scrolls and text when, quite suddenly, something clicked. "It's a dance," he stated, matter-of-factly.  
  
Archer promptly stumbled over his back talons and, despite a quick recovery, managed to look disheveled. "What?"  
  
"A dance," he repeated, pointing a talon to the first scroll. "That pattern you're putting on the floor, it's supposed to match the marks along the edge of the page. It's not our music, but it's music."  
  
Archer rushed over to look. "How, Joaquin, are you sure? I thought it a ritual, it says to.. bring forth the presence of the elements-"  
  
"A ritual-dance, in that case, but most assuredly a dance."  
  
Archer, suddenly crestfallen, sighed. "I'm hardly a gifted dancer, sky or otherwise."  
  
Touched, Joaquin gave his feathery mane a brief shake. "Nonsense. I'll show you. Let's match the scrolls."  
  
"Are you-" Archer began, as Joaquin leaned to pick up the first scroll. Holding it before him, Joaquin studied the pattern and the whorls that paced from each to the next. Smoothly, if focused on the scroll, he started a slow progression through the glyphs.  
  
Moments later, a piping melody broke into the chamber, easily accompanying the pace of Joaquin's steps. Startled, he paused, quickly realizing Wencel had drawn forth wooden panpipes.  
  
Gesturing for Joaquin to continue, he maintained his melody.  
  
Heartened, Joaquin progressed through the steps until he grew in confidence at the order of their execution. Pleased, he reached to grasp Archer's talons. "Come on, this is your project. Follow my lead, all right?"  
  
Hesitantly, Archer began to mirror Joaquin's progress through the series of steps. After a few runs through the first scroll, they proceeded to the next. Wencel, happy to improvise, easily matched their pace with artful flourish.  
  
Slowly, imperceptibly at first, something began to happen. Snow--sparkling and unbidden--began to glitter through the air, swirling gently about Joaquin's floating orbs of light. Soon, those too began to sway about the room.  
  
"Joyous circumstance," Archer murmured, looking about, yet unwilling to cease their progress.  
  
Curious, Joaquin glanced to him.  
  
"The tome, it said.. to perform this in times of dire want for joyous circumstance."  
  
Suddenly of the belief that they'd succeeded, Joaquin broke into heartfelt laughter. Archer, immediately infected, joined in.  
  
Wencel, for his part, continued his flourishing pipe melody, for even Macaroon and Knight had taken to scrabbling about the chamber in unfettered excitement.


	5. Damsel in distress

 

"Come along, Knight!"  
  
Excitedly, Archer's small Fawn Fox Rat whisked from his woven basket to swish around the door and through Archer's feet.  
  
Wencel, who'd been similarly curled in comfortable repose within Archer's oft-cluttered quarters, looked up from the text he'd been studying. "Archer, what inspired your choice of his name, if you don't mind me asking?"  
  
"Oh," Archer sighed, still holding the door ajar. "I rather fancied myself a damsel in distress, at the time. Certainly in dire need of rescue, but instead..." he glanced down at the impatiently circling fox rat. " _Instead_ , a friend gifted me this little fellow, and he's brought me joy and, to a degree, necessary distraction from existential wallowing."  
  
Though still pale and wan from his trials in the moulin, Wencel broke into a grin that--to Archer's relief--reached his eyes.  
  
"I'll be back in nary a moment. This little fellow ought to make use of the outdoor facilities before I retire for the evening."  
  
After closing the door, Archer let his talons linger at the handle.  _An aid to my introspective misery, yet I fear you'll need something a fair share more drastic,_  he thought, recalling a conversation between Piertrov and Rusalka that he'd--at the time--pretended to be far too absorbed in his work to overhear.  
  
Physically, they felt that Wencel had recovered. His remaining symptoms, beyond the extensive damage to his wing, concerned them greatly. Nightmares plagued Archer's darkly-humored understudy, along with a host of rather more worrisome complaints.  
  
To be sure, his friend didn't complain of them, but Archer hadn't made it so far in life by being either thick or unobservant.  
  
Pawed at by Knight, Archer withdrew his talons from the door. At least, in this singular instance, the matter of taking his small furry companion outdoors was resoundingly simple and domestic.


End file.
